Supper's on and the table is set. Around here that means that an epic tale replete with timeless themes of fate and death will ensue. I stand at center stage, family-size skillet and spatula raised high above my head:
Oh my children, the new blood of ancient Thebes, why are you here? Huddling at my altar, praying for the food. Our city reeks with the smoke of burning olive oil, rings with cries for the delivery guy and wailing from the hungry. I thought it wrong, my children, for you to hear the truth from others, messengers. Here I am myself-you all know me, the world knows my fame: I am your Mother. Dinner is ready.
The Chorus takes its place:
We are not eating that. That is disgusting. We hate vegetables. No wonder we suffer twice over, the pain of our wounds, the lasting grief of pain. That stuff is slimy and we hate cheese.
And it is inevitable. By the end of this drama lifeless bodies will strewn the table or someone is going to end up with their eyes poked out or some poor son or daughter will unwittingly murder a parent. It is already happening, because, frankly,
this is killing me.